Episode 19

Hidden Fire

I ran lightly along the rooftops, leaping from one roof to the next like a ninja.

Always keep moving, that’s my motto.

The moon, when it peered through a break in the clouds, was huge and yellow. I paused to survey my domain, the city laid out like a cemetery. Mostly there weren’t any breaks in the clouds. The rain poured down, cloaking me in mystery.

Being a gecko is more than just being an agile lizard. It’s a way of seeing, a way of moving through a four-dimensional world. At your best, nothing can stop you, because nothing is trying to stop you, everything is lifting and assisting, cooperating, so you become what you truly are: limitless.

Of course that’s the ideal.

I dropped silently onto a ledge, high above the street, and looked round the corner. I eased back. Trouble.

My tail was twitching like a gambler and I forced myself to take a slow, deep breath. What was wrong with me? I’d done this a thousand times. I am the shadow, the shadow does not fear. My tail stopped twitching.

A couple of hoodlums were guarding the walkway connecting this building to the other. To be honest, despite their deep raincoats, they looked miserable. Rain always makes sentries lazy, especially when it’s cold—it takes a real effort not to think about a cozy fire and focus on the job at hand, which is to watch for thieves and ruthless assassins.

They didn’t even see me.

I crouched in the deep alcove on the other side, my toes splaying across the wet stone, and looked into the room.

A fire was crackling in the study.

The study was plush—almost too plush. It was also empty.

My fingers made quick work of the window, and I slipped in. It was good to be back in business. I mean, not that I have a specialty. But this was definitely one of my favourites.

I padded across the thick carpet to the desk.

There were piles of documents. Fountain pens, that kind of thing. But documents—they’re gold. My fingers tingled as I rifled through them. It only takes me a second or two to know, sometimes three. Even the quality of the paper tells you something. Big words often don’t mean much, but a name, a number—something specific.

Bingo.

I pocketed the letter. Insurance.

I took another look around the spacious room. Bookshelves of old tomes, busts on pedestals, a rich tapestry that took up an entire wall. Green velvet curtains, golden fire pokers, a pile of tasselled cushions, gas lighting. Possibly a secret door, disguised as an impressive geometric painting of Vår in jet black, porcelain white. Splashes of scarlet red and canary yellow. No doubt leading to the safe. The real door: sturdy, closed. The faint odour of incense and cigar.

The room exuded a deep quiet, accentuated by the soft pops of the fire.

I love how the world opens up to me in moments like this—every object becomes textured and thick, layered not only with scents and scratches but also an intense availability. Potential weapons, loot, clues to character and quick exits—interior decoration tells you a lot if you have an eye for it. And I do.

I could tell the man—for surely he was a man—was obscenely wealthy by the wood burning in the fireplace, even when no one was around. The tapestry illustrated the life of Theodorus, the four quarters representing each of the four sigils. The outsider who built the city and became the establishment. Of course. A fine tapestry, but not an old one.

Most interesting, the small wooden bowl that took pride of place on the desk. If I wasn’t mistaken, the markings inscribed on it were the Esbridorian script. A rare find, certainly, but not so rare that a man would accord it such prestige. No, this spoke to a more personal connection. Together with the unusual shape of the letter opener, the well-thumbed book of poetry, and the six little indentations in the carpet next to the desk, he was almost certainly Esbridorian himself.

A self-made man then, with reasonable taste and a sentimental streak.

I decided to take a quick look round the house and made my way out of the room, treading carefully down the staircase to the polished marble of the foyer.

“What are you doing in my house.” The rich, gravelly voice was measured.

I turned to face the owner, who was dressed in a blue robe and holding a candle on the stairs above me.

“Good evening,” I said smoothly, spreading my hands. “Deepest apologies—the back door was wide open and I feared the worst. Thank goodness you’re safe. The intruder may still be here—do you have anything we can arm ourselves with?”

“Certainly. Thank goodness you’re here. Right this way, my friend.”

Next episode: Underway